


In Paris With You

by KatyObsesses



Category: Glee
Genre: Based on a poem I studied at GCSE, Bi!Blaine, Bisexual Male Character, French!Kurt, In Paris With You - James Fenton, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 04:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21093071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyObsesses/pseuds/KatyObsesses
Summary: I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.Blaine Anderson was heartbroken when his wedding to Rachel Berry had fallen through. She left him at the altar with nothing more than a 'sorry' as she ran off with her highschool sweetheart.But the honeymoon to Paris was paid in full and non-refundable.





	In Paris With You

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [In Paris With You](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/528344) by NerdLifeIsAGreatLife. 

> This is an imported and updated work from fanfiction.net that I originally wrote in 2011, updated in 2014, and am now updating again in 2019.

_I'm so sorry,_ The letter in Blaine's hand read, Rachel's perfect cursive mocking him in it's steadiness. _I'm just so sorry_.

The cleanliness of the letter, the lack of tear stains, the lack of mistakes. It didn't seem as though she was sorry. She'd left him standing at the altar, perfectly tailored black tux and gelled back hair. She'd sent her Maid of Honor with a handwritten letter, and then she'd run off with Finn Hudson, her highschool sweetheart.

He wanted to scream, to shout, to run after her and beg her to stay, ask her _why._ He had loved her with all of his heart. Hadn't she loved him the same?

Instead he'd gone back to their hotel room, packed his things, and gone off on their non-refundable honeymoon to Paris.

The hotel staff had downgraded his room when he had turned up without a new wife, shoving him into one of the sleazier rooms they offered, peeling paint, cracks in the ceiling, windows that refused to close all the way.

Coming to Paris, the city of love, may have been a brilliant idea for a honeymoon, but not for someone left at the altar.

Everywhere he looked there were couples. Kissing, embracing, loving, in the French sunlight. It made his heart _ache_ for Rachel, for the love that they had had.

He became a regular at a bar near his hotel. A small hole-in-the-wall that seemed to harbour drunks more than couples like the first few he'd drowned his sorrows in. It was dirty, the bartenders were rude, and there were drunken fights most nights. It was the perfect place for him to vent his anguish on unsuspecting strangers.

She'd left him trapped in his own self-pity, his own depressive thoughts. He felt lost within the clutter of his heartbroken mind.

Until he'd met _him_. Kurt.

He'd literally bumped into him, falling to the floor in his drunken haze. As he gazed up, he swore he was looking at an angel. His anger at Rachel was pushed to the back of his mind, his resentment at the mess she'd made of his heart falling away. The angel in front of him now the only thing he could focus on. His perfect blue-green eyes, his coifed hair, the fashionable way he dressed. He was perfect.

He didn't resist, the next night, when the angel had dragged him into the bar's dirty bathroom. Their hands and mouths all over each other, a brief exchange of names, before they shouted each other's out in bliss. Dying a little, becoming closer. 

Blaine knew it was a rebound, but he didn't care where it was heading. He just wanted to stay with Kurt in Paris forever, dying a little every evening and screaming out his name.

He and Kurt wound up in Blaine's hotel room more often than not. They spent days holed up within those four walls, calling room service instead of leaving the room. Blaine had seen nothing of Paris beyond the few bars he'd visited and the hotel.

He hadn't seen the Eiffel Tower, or the Louvre, or the Arc de Triomphe. 

And with Kurt next to him, he didn't care.

They didn't just have sex, though. They talked together - Blaine in broken French, Kurt in broken English. They learnt about each other, their likes and dislikes, their friends and family, their dreams and aspirations. Kurt liked cheesecake and scarves, he hated plain black coffee and cats that shed. Kurt's father, Burt, had died when he was eight, and his mother, Katharine, owned a bakery. Kurt wanted to be a singer, or a fashion designer, or a playwrite, but he currently worked as a freelance journalist.

Before meeting Kurt, Blaine had never really explored his sexuality. He was lucky enough to be attracted to girls in a place where anything else was seen as wrong. Sure, he'd had plenty of crushes on men in his life. He wasn't against the idea of being LGBTQ+. He had even told Rachel that he felt as though he might have been bisexual.

But he'd loved her for so long that he had previously felt no need to explore that side of him.

He had so few days left in Paris, and he was afraid he was... falling in love.

But he couldn't allow himself to - Not again, not so soon, not so quickly - So he focused on his little view of Paris.

He didn't care, with Kurt by his side, that the hotel room was so run-down, he wanted to remember every little detail.

The crack across the ceiling. The peeling wallpaper. The bedsprings that squeaked as they fucked.

The draft on his face, from the windows that refused to close all the way, as he lay in bed with Kurt, mapping his features with his eyes. With his fingers. With his lips.

He wanted to commit them all to memory, commit Paris to memory, commit _Kurt _to memory.

He tried to enjoy the last few days he had left in Paris, the last few days he had left with Kurt. He pushed his feelings back, and focused on everything else. He focused on Kurt.

The way his eyes spearkled when he laughed. The way his mouth felt under his, or on him, or around him, sucking. 

He focused on the way Kurt pounded into him, making the bedsprings squeak and moan. 

He focused on the way Kurt's cheeks flushed when he made any sort of stilted innuendo in French, despite him being so opposite with his clothes off.

He never wanted his time in Paris to end. He never wanted his time with _Kurt_ to end.

But it did.

Eventually, his three weeks of vacation were over. The night before his early morning flight was torture, they clung to each other, after shouting out the other's name in ecstasy. Kurt clung to him tightly, almost too tight, and yet... not tight enough. 

"_Je t’aime plus chaque jour_," Kurt breathed into Blaine's wild curls, almost too quietly to understand. Blaine could feel his heart shatter into a million pieces at the words that he could.

_Je t'aime... I love you._

This hurt more than being left at the alter. This hurt more than the ending of a 10 year relationship. They had barely known each other for two weeks, they could barely understand each other most of the time, but somehow they had come together and...

They had fallen in love.

\-----

"I don't want to leave you." Blaine breaths back, turning in Kurt's arms to look him in the eye. Moonlight filters through the drafty window, and the thin curtains flutter. 

"_Ne me quitte pas._" Kurt begs in French, but Blaine can barely understand, his brain too full of sorrow and exhaustion to translate. "_Je t'en prie_."

"I love you." Blaine breathes, kissing the corner of Kurt's mouth as his breath stutters.

"_Je suis fou de toi._" Kurt breathes into the still night, kissing Blaine's jaw.

"_Tu me rends gaga._" He continues, kissing Blaine's forehead.

"_Je t’ai dans la peau_." He kisses Blaine's nose.

He stares deeply into Blaine's eyes as he mutters the last phrase, trying his best to make him understand the meaning behind the foreign words.

"_Sans toi, je ne suis rien_."

He kisses Blaine passionately on the lips, then, and while Blaine doesn't understand the direct translation of the words, he can understant the meaning.

"I'm in _love _with you." He tells Kurt fiercely as they break apart. "I don't care how far apart we are, I will _always _be in love with you." 

\-----

He sneaks out the next morning, Kurt sleeping deeply in the bed. His heart is left in the room as he quietly closes the door. The key to the room is on the bedside table, on top of a folded piece of hotel stationary. Even if Blaine wanted to go back into the room, he can't. He's locked out.

He wonders, as he leaves the hotel and heads towards the metro, what Kurt will think when he wakes.

\-----

Kurt wakes to a cold and empty bed.

At first he feels disorientated in this unfamiliar room. Except it's not unfamiliar, he's just unused to being in it alone, without the sounds and presence of another person.

"Blaine?" He whispers into the eerie silence, blinking to adjust to the darkness. He can hear a _click _as the door closes softly.

His heart shatters.

"_Non,_" He breathes into the still early morning air. He's wide awake now, but he hopes that he's dreaming.

He turns towards the door and spies a piece of paper on the bedside table, under the key to the room. His name is carefully printed on front, a small heart doodled next to it.

He doesn't want to open it, but his hands quickly do. The foreign English words are set out like a poem, or a song.

> Don't talk to me of Love. I've had an earful.  
And I get tearful, when I've downed a drink or two  
I'm one of your talking wounded.  
I'm a hostage, I'm maroonded.  
But I'm in Paris with you.
> 
> Yes I am angry at the way I've been bamboozled  
And resentful at the mess I've been through.  
I admit I'm on the rebound  
and I don't care where we are bound  
I'm in Paris with you.
> 
> Do you mind if we do not go to the Lourve  
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,  
If we skip the Champs-Élysées  
And remain here in this sleezy  
  
Old hotel room  
Doing this and that  
To what and whom  
Learning who you are,  
Learning what I am.
> 
> Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,  
The little bit of Paris in our view.  
There's a crack across the ceiling  
And the hotel walls are peeling  
And I'm in Paris with you.
> 
> Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.  
I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.  
I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth.  
I'm in Paris with... All points south.  
Am I embarrassing you?  
  
I'm in Paris with you.

The poem is riddled with tear marks and striketroughs, entire stanza's blacked out. It's beautiful in it's ugliness, in the mistakes and chicken scratch. It's barely legible, especially to Kurt, who is only able to understand and comprehend a few words and phrases.

But it's beautiful.

Underneath is something Kurt does understand. Two simple words in French and an email.

_ Je t'aime._

_\- bdanderson@gmail.com_

**Author's Note:**

> The poem is _In Paris With You_ by James Fenton.
> 
> This story has been in my head since I was studying this poem for GSCEs almost a decade ago in 2011. I, for some reason, loved this poem with my whole heart where as most of my classmates hated it. I loved the pacing, and I loved the meaning, I just fell in love with it.
> 
> So I wrote a little story using it for Klaine, this was back in 2011 and posted on FF.net. I then, apparently, updated it in 2014 - so I no longer have the _ original _ version but the 2014 version can be found here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7063593/1/In-Paris-With-You
> 
> I randomly stumbled upon my old scarvesandcoffee.net account (who else remembers that gem of a site?) and it had my ff.net account linked, and so I found all my fanfictions from that time. It was weird to read through them all, but I still had such a huge love for the idea of this one that I had to re-write it. Again.
> 
> It's a lot different from the original, but it's also a lot the same.
> 
> So here it is, five years on. Hopefully I'm a better writer than I was at... 17/18.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> (this is completely un-beta-ed so please tell me if you spot any mistakes!)


End file.
